“No.”
I stopped moving.
“Then who?”
Phoebe exhaled.
“The number belongs to Naomi.”
My personal assistant.
For seven years, Naomi had managed my calendar, travel, confidential correspondence, household scheduling, and more private details of my life than almost anyone except Evelyn.
Naomi had been in the hospital waiting room when Lily was born.
She had sent flowers to Evelyn’s house that morning.
She had texted me two hours earlier asking whether I needed groceries.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I whispered.
“I know.”
Evelyn frowned.
“Could someone have entered her number without her knowing?”
“Yes,” Phoebe said. “That’s possible.”
“Could somebody have forwarded the verification call?”
“Also possible.”
I sat down.
My mind raced backward through months of tiny moments.
Naomi rescheduling meetings for Luca.
Naomi arranging Wendy’s birthday dinner.
Naomi handling contractor access at the estate.
Naomi reminding me that Luca needed copies of insurance documents.
None of it had seemed unusual.
Because none of it had been unusual.
Not individually.
My phone buzzed.
A text message.
From Naomi.
I heard there’s been confusion about the house. Please don’t sign anything until I talk to you. There’s something about Luca’s plan you don’t know.
I read it twice.
Then the phone rang.
Naomi.
Evelyn looked at me.
Phoebe’s voice came sharply through the speaker.
“Jessi, don’t answer until—”
But another message arrived before she could finish.
This one contained a photograph.
An envelope.
Cream-colored.
My name handwritten across the front.
I recognized the handwriting instantly.
My father’s.
Beneath the image, Naomi had written only one sentence.
Luca found this in your father’s desk six months ago, and I think everything he’s doing started after he read what was inside.
I forgot the house.
The appraisal.
The locks.
Miami.
Everything.
My father had been dead for nearly four years.
That desk had remained untouched in the locked library ever since.
And as I stared at the photograph of the envelope, I noticed four words written beneath my name in his unmistakable hand.
For Jessica, when necessary.
Naomi’s phone call stopped.
Then immediately started again.
This time, I answered.
“Naomi,” I whispered. “What was in my father’s letter?”
There was silence on the line.
Then she said something I never expected.
